Bourne High School - Canal Currents Yearbook (Bourne, MA)

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School sitting here, it being the highest point in the rockies, and everything was still, awful in its stillness. Then, dad said, he saw the skies actually open up with their beauty. And the reds and golds and purples changed for one brief instant to form a picture — a beautiful one — of God and His kingdom. It was dad’s vision of Utopia — a place where everyone was happy — where everyone was on an equal basis with the other — where there were no individual countries, no classes, socially or financially. It was dad’s vision of what he wanted this country — our country — to be. It seemed to him that God had given everyone so much beauty to be thankful for, so much kindness and love that they ought to be happy. But they were not. They were taking too much beauty for granted. They were so controlled by hate and greed and pride that they were unable to see past those things into the beauty of the world.” Then he stopped talking. I guess all of a sudden he came down to earth and realized that he was talking to some of those same people. Those con- trolled by hate and greed and pride. And I think he was hurt, because he loved that story so. And I sort of feel that he felt he was somehow wronging that story, telling it to us. Phyllis Stockley, ’41 A Matter Of Life Or Death It was a bright July morning when Koro, my guide, and I left for the interior of the great South American jungle. As we paddled down stream, we noticed sleek, gray forms slide from the bank into the water. These croco- diles swam under and around the boat a few times and then let us pass un- molested. Farther down the river we were suddenly aware of a great splashing around the bend. A gigantic white man was astride a crocodile, plunging his knife again and again into the slimy beast. The crocodile finally gave in Then the giant white figure lifted the crocodile from the water onto the bank and began to skin the animal of its hide. We were watching him unnoticed, when a large, slippery python reached down from the trees and began to strangle him. Quick as a flash, I drew my rifle to my shoulder and took care- ful aim. After this had blown the reptile’s head off, we paddled to shore and untangled the large figure. While we bandaged his wounds he told us that he had escaped from Devil’s Island. After hearing his story, I felt that it was my duty to take him back to civilization for a fair trial. At first he protested against leaving the jungle, but then he promised to come because I had saved his life. Before taking him back we were going to get at least one black panther. After traveling for two days we came to the hills where the panthers abided. The prisoner told us stories of the panthers and wished to come with us, so we granted him that wish. Early the next morning we started out into the hills. Koro was on the trail of a panther; he sniffed the air and then the ground and beckoned us to follow. Ahead was a large black panther waiting to spring on us. As we rounded the bend, he sprang, but Koro drew his machete and slashed the animal to death in mid-air. It came down in a heap on top of Koro, knocking him unconscious. While tending to Koro’s wounds, 1 was aware of a whirring sound behind me and turned to see the mate of the dead panther, which was almost twice as large, spring from a tree straight Page TiL’e7tty-five

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School Turning The Tables Dashing Pete Johnson, in buoyant good humor over the great success his tour through the small western town was creating, smiled admiringly at the surrounding plains as he sped along in his yellow roadster. Yes, little did the admiring public know that the wild bronc he stuck on for a record time was Glitter Pictures Studio’s trained horse, or that all his other astounding feats were just used to insure his position as Box Office No. 1 Favorite. Now his pale blue eyes set in his too-handsome face kept smooth by Lady Abigail’s Cream” noticed a group of tall, lean men in faded, blue jeans and bright, plaid shirts arguing over a herd of cattle near the fence which bordered the highway. He sensed their problem was how to get the cattle from one side of the highway into the plain on the other side. Stopping his car, he went up to them and said gallantly, I believe, my good men. that I can solve your problem for you very easily. With your permission I’ll take the cattle across the highway myself.” Dumbfounded they looked at him and one of them, the big one who had led the argument drawled out, Reckon you have our permission, Mr. Johnson, if you’re goin’ to be so kind!” So Pete led the cattle down to the gate; fumbled with the lock; stopped a line of cars as the herd milled across the highway; fumbled again with the other lock; then turned back to the half-smiling group of men. With a despairing look at his soiled hands, but with the comforting thought of his boosted popularity, he addressed them. You’re entirely welcome, gentlemen. Not a word now! The task was nothing to me. Adios!” We sure are grateful, sir,” the big fellow yelled after him. As he sped on his way again he heard the hearty laughter behind him and he also chuckled to himself. Poor bunch of dudes, stuck with the problem of taking a herd of cattle from one pasture to another across the highway! Guess he showed them w hat kind of a cattle man he was! As the Bar-X cowboys climbed on their horses to ride home, one of them, with eyes still brimming full of laughter, said to the chap Mr. Johnson had conversed wdth, the foreman, Well, Bill! he certainly solved our argument as to whose turn it w as to lead the cattle down through the underpass!” Jean Matheson, ’42 The Great Divide Last summer, returning from Montana, we stopped high in the Rockies to view the Great Divide”. That is, the actual place where the waters part — some to flow into the Pacific, the others into the large rivers — the Missouri, the Mississippi and their tributaries, and finally into the Atlantic. It is a won- derful spot — so symbolic of . . . well, just something. Bill, our westerner friend, told us a story about the Great Divide. I don’t know yet whether or not it is true, but I like to think that it is. It was about a century ago w hen my dad was only a boy, perhaps ten or eleven. Dad would tell me how they used to come here, his dad, my grandpa, and my dad and w atch the sunset sometimes. My grandpa had a great love for beauty, even if he w ' ere a rough and tumble gold miner. Maybe chat’s why he w anted gold — to give my grandma beautiful things. Well, anyway, they used to w atch the sunset. One evening they w ere Page Twenty- four

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Canal Currents, Bourne High School at me. His jaws were wide open and could easily have taken my head off in one bite. The large white man was faster than the panther; he sprang for Koro’s machete and met the animal in mid-air. Both, two deadly beasts while in combat, were sprawled upon the ground. The man quickly cut his ropes and, springing upon the panther’s back and putting his arms under the animal’s forelegs and over its neck, applied so much pressure that the seams of his shirt split. Finally, there was a sharp crack and the animal lay lifeless upon the ground with his neck broken. The white giant quickly arose and looked at my gun and then at me as if daring me to shoot him while he made his escape. He quickly sprang into the tree in ape-like fashion to the life he loved, while I had two dead panthers at my feet. George Handy, ’43 In Today ' s News — The stars began to fade into the hazy light of a new dream. Yet he still chipped at the block of marble. The room was a haze of smoke yet it didn’t seem to annoy either him or the other slovenly figure on the rumpled bed whose loud, loathesome snore alone broke the silence. Suddenly the artist jumped from his stool with a cry of desperate joy, spilling a cup of half- consumed coffee — Michael!” he cried and, rushing to the wash basin, filled a glass of water and dashed it on Michael’s” face: ' An odor of heavy drink clung about the awaking form. ' The name s Mike,” he said brokenly, falling back into a drunken stupor. Oh, you idiot — don’t you see? It’s finished” . . . So what?” Good heavens, man — ”, the artist tore at his hair and fell, from sheer exhaustion, onto the studio couch nearby. When he awoke it was again dawn. He had slept through that day and night. Uh-Yawn-Ahhh.” He rolled over suddenly, his eyes bulged. His sculp- ture — Where was it? — Mike? At that instant the door opened. Mike fell in, grinning stupidly — drunk again. Where did you get the money?” At the same time that he wondered that, he noticed that the sculpture was gone. (= News Item Dec. 16 — 7 A. M. — Early this morning a body was found mutilated al- most beyond recognition by a sculptor’s chisel. It was identified as the half-brother of Rene du Gastion, well-known sculptor genius who has not been seen since last week. Dec. 18 — Unidentified corpse found by fisherman at waterfront. Police believe it to be suicide. Janet Wheeler, ’42 Page Twenty -six